


Lessons Learned

by mogwai_do



Series: Family Matters [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Mycroft Holmes, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 03:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: At seven years old Mycroft Holmes knew he was different; he'd realised it years ago, but only now he was forced to interact with so many other children did he realise how painfully true it was. It was... difficult.Lessons learned at an early age tend to stick with you.





	Lessons Learned

At seven years old Mycroft Holmes knew he was different; he'd realised it years ago, but only now he was forced to interact with so many other children did he realise how painfully true it was. It was... difficult.

He had been sent home from school yesterday; he wouldn't be allowed back until Mummy had fixed things. He would have to apologise, he was sure. He thought he was probably supposed to regret it too, but he didn't, not exactly, and that was the problem. Mummy was at work again and Father been at his laboratory in the countryside for days; he had been away more and more since Sherlock had been born, but it was easy enough to find Uncle.

Sherlock's room was dim, even in the midday light; the walls had been painted a navy blue and the furniture was all dark, heavy wood. It had been Mycroft's room first, but his walls had been a deep, forest green instead. Still, it was soothing, hushed and muted like the rest of the world wasn't; it had been his sanctuary and now it was Sherlock’s. As he'd expected, Uncle was sitting in the huge, soft armchair near the open window, Sherlock tucked against him, fast asleep while Uncle read.

Green eyes lifted to his as he entered the room and the book was set aside easily. Mycroft liked that his uncle always knew, always gave him his full attention when he needed it. It was hard to get Father's attention sometimes and secretly Mycroft wished he could grow up quicker so he would have it sooner. Mummy's time had always been scheduled and rationed because of her work and as proud as he was that she did important things, sometimes he wished they weren’t _that_ important.

Mycroft came to a stop in front of his uncle and for a moment studied his baby brother sleeping soundly. Sherlock never slept well alone, but he slept best with Father or Uncle and once even with Mycroft himself.

There were so many things to ask that Mycroft wasn't sure where to begin. He knew he would have to apologise and he knew he would because that was what it would take to go back to school, but he didn't want to. He looked up to meet his uncle's eyes; "I'm not sorry!" he blurted out, then flinched because he hadn't meant to say that.

His uncle's mouth twitched, "Good," he agreed.

Mycroft frowned, "That's not what Headmistress Palmer said."

His uncle's smile broadened, "I'm sure it wasn't." He shifted a little in the chair, creating a bit of space that Mycroft knew was meant just for him. He climbed up into it, because he wasn't going to keep standing in front of his uncle like he was being told off and not because his uncle was warm and reassuringly solid next to him. He squirmed a little to fit into the almost too tight space.

"Roland called me a freak," he muttered, an explanation he hadn't been asked for, though he'd tried to explain it to Mummy.

"And you broke three of his fingers and his nose," his uncle responded, but there wasn't the horror that the Headmistress's voice had held, or the disappointment that Mummy's had, if anything Uncle sounded amused.

Mycroft remembered the sound and the feel of Roland's bones breaking and it made him want to smile fiercely, but in a moment the pleasure faded, "Will Father be angry with me?"

His uncle snorted softly, "I very much doubt that, Mycroft. He was the one who gave you those anatomy books, remember. Besides, your father has been in more than his fair share of fights over the years."

There was something like laughter in his uncle's voice, but Mycroft didn't think it was meant for him. It settled him though and he edged just a little closer into his uncle's side. A hand came up and long fingers stroked through his hair briefly before curling around his shoulder comfortably. "But unless you want more than your fair share too, you are going to have to learn to control your temper," his uncle's voice was soft and serious.

"He asked for it," Mycroft protested because he felt like he should, even though he wasn't sure what exactly he was protesting.

He felt more than heard his uncle's soft chuckle, "Oh, I’m not arguing with you, but consider this: because of what you did, you encouraged everyone to take Roland’s side. As a result, he'll be coddled and praised and you will be regarded with suspicion. People will watch you more closely and people will start to think that Roland was right and it will reflect on your whole family."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, still sleeping despite their words, who had all of this still to come; it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing if he took Sherlock's share of fights first, "But that's stupid!"

There was a soft huff of amusement, "A lot of people are, Mycroft, it's something you're just going to have to learn to live with."

Mycroft crossed his arms and huffed, "So I shouldn't have done anything to Roland?" he demanded. His uncle's quiet explanation had stung more than Mummy’s admonishments or the lack of pudding at dinner time.

He felt the hand on his shoulder squeeze and he looked up to see his uncle smile, the odd, not very nice one he used sometimes when he was talking to Father and Mycroft wasn't supposed to be listening, not that he understood the language they used just yet, but he would. "Oh no, you just need to be a bit more creative and a bit more patient."

Mycroft frowned, "What do you mean?"

He felt his uncle settle back into the armchair a little more, "Well, you wanted Roland to pay, but all you did was give him an injury that made him look good, you look bad, and ensured he'd be treated nicely for months. Think about the consequences, for you and for him, and think about what would be a better result."

Mycroft nodded solemnly; that was easy, he had wanted Roland to hurt, which he had achieved quickly and easily, but his uncle was right, there had been unintended consequences that almost outweighed the damage. He still wanted Roland to hurt, but he didn't want it to come back to him later - or to Sherlock. He glanced up at his uncle who nodded encouragingly. It felt a bit like when Father sometimes tested him with chemistry questions at dinnertime. "I still want him to hurt, but it would be better if he looked bad and I looked good," Mycroft tried, "and he hurt for longer," he added defiantly because he wanted to. 

"Okay," his uncle agreed amiably enough, "so, widen your definitions, is hurt just broken bones?"

Mycroft considered the expression on Mummy's face when he'd been brought home, "No."

His uncle's smile deepened, "Alright, and what would make Roland look bad?"

"Fighting," he answered immediately, but that wasn't all. "Failing a class, getting caught doing something against school rules, getting expelled..."

"And how might any of those happen?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed in thought, but before he could really formulate a response his uncle added, "Remember consequences, Mycroft. Not just to you and Roland, but to everyone else. Think about other people, what do you know about them that might affect those consequences?"

For a moment Mycroft was puzzled; he knew lots about everyone, uncle knew that, but what did that have to do with making Roland hurt? The others wouldn’t hurt Roland for Mycroft; they liked Roland more than they liked him. They would have to like Mycroft more or Roland less for that… Then suddenly it all fit together neatly, far better than those tedious puzzles at school. He glanced up at his uncle whose smile was broad and just for him and he grinned back.

"So what have you come up with?" Uncle asked.

"I shouldn't have hit him," Mycroft responded promptly, confident that he had the solution now.

His uncle smiled, "No, you shouldn't have," he agreed.

Mycroft settled back, following the threads of consequence, both direct and indirect, that were so obvious now, seeing so clearly which ones he needed to pull to make the pattern he wanted. "I should have told Lucy that Roland was the one who stole her new bracelet."

"Did he?"

"No, it was Roland's friend, David."

"And what would happen then?"

"Then Lucy would tell the teacher and she would search Roland's locker."

"But would she find the bracelet, if he didn't steal it?"

Mycroft smiled, he'd learned how to open all the lockers his first day at school, "Yes."

He felt his uncle squeeze his shoulder again, "And then?"

"Then Roland would have to go to the Headmistress and his parents would be called and they're in Switzerland so they'd be cross with him," Mycroft breathed, imagining the row. "And then," he said almost breathless, "Roland would be cross at being caught, and he knew David had the bracelet so he would be cross with David and David would think that Roland stole the bracelet off him so he would be cross too and they would fight and then they'd see the Headmistress again and Roland might even get expelled."

Mycroft's eyes were alight with the idea of it; it wouldn’t make him look good, but somehow that made it even better because it wouldn't look like it was anything to do with him at all. He twisted to look up at his uncle, seeing the green eyes smiling at him and he reached up to wrap his arms around his uncle's neck, giving him a quick hug. Father disapproved of hugs, but Uncle seemed to like them and even Mummy accepted them sometimes.

Uncle ruffled his hair affectionately, "See how much better that would have been?" He leaned closer still, "But you know what's even better?" Mycroft shook his head wide-eyed, and his uncle grinned, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "You can still do all that if you want. Just because you have to apologise doesn't mean you have to be sorry, and losing the first round doesn't mean the game's over."

And Mycroft could actually see it, all the unfolding connections he'd never made because he'd been looking at the world wrong. It wasn't him and his family against everyone else, like black and white in chess; it was like a cat's cradle and Mycroft had always loved those, watching the patterns he could create just by pulling the right strings.

If he told the Headmistress that Roland had tried to steal from him and that was what had caused the fight, she wouldn't believe him. But after the bracelet was found she might have to reconsider and then maybe he wouldn't get the permanent mark on his record and then maybe Mummy wouldn't be cross anymore.

There was a soft noise and Mycroft looked down to see that Sherlock had finally woken, blinking sleepy eyes that were almost colourless in the dim light. Mycroft reached out a hand and watched as Sherlock's tiny hand automatically curled around his fingers, dragging Mycroft’s index finger to his mouth. Father always said that brothers were important, but Mycroft had known that anyway the first time he’d laid eyes on his. 

He hadn't known what to expect when he'd learned he would have a brother, all the evidence he’d seen at school seemed contradictory, but the first time he'd seen Sherlock he'd known he'd do everything he could to protect him because Sherlock was *his* brother. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to grow up enough that they could talk and Mycroft could show him how to deal with the world's Rolands… Or maybe Mycroft would deal with them first, that might be better, then Sherlock wouldn't get hurt like Mycroft had and Mummy wouldn't get cross with him. Except by the time Sherlock had to go to school, Mycroft would be at a different school and he wouldn't be able to be there. The thought made him suddenly angry, as angry as he'd been at Roland.

"Mycroft," his uncle's voice was soft, "Temper." Not an admonishment, but a reminder.

Mycroft twisted, a little ashamed, but still angry. Stupid people would hurt Sherlock, would probably call him a freak too, and Mycroft wouldn’t be able to do anything about it; how could he not be angry? 

Sherlock was still watching him with huge, pale eyes and Mycroft gently extricated his finger from his brother's demanding grasp. It was hard to tell when he was still so young, but Mycroft thought Sherlock might be worried by his anger. "How do I not be angry?" he asked softly, helplessly.

He felt his uncle press a kiss into his hair, "You don't have to not be angry, Mycroft, you just have to control it. Like when you learned to stop throwing things or setting them on fire, remember? It will still be there, you just let it out when it's best or you use it in a different way."

And Mycroft did remember that, how hard it had been at first, but also how much easier once he’d mastered it.

"And sometimes, because it will happen sometimes, when it's too much to control, just remember to hide the bodies well."

His uncle said it seriously, the way people did when they were actually joking, but the joke was that it really wasn't a joke at all and Mycroft knew it, but he wasn't sure if he was supposed to know that yet, Mummy might be cross again like when he'd found Father's notes on his experiments.

Mycroft tucked his head against his uncle's chest to listen to his heartbeat, letting it calm him and soothe the anger that still bubbled inside, and when Sherlock's grasping hands caught his sleeve he just turned to watch the insistent attempts to drag him closer. "Will you help?" he asked in a small voice, closer to the age he was than the one he usually used.

He felt his uncle's smile, rather than saw it, "Of course, I've been helping your father with that for years."

And he never said whether it was with his temper or hiding the bodies, but it didn't matter, because Mycroft was pretty sure it was both.


End file.
